


Broken Things - Mending

by Jaydeun



Series: Broken Things [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sick Crowley (Good Omens), Sleepy Cuddles, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 16:46:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20439248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydeun/pseuds/Jaydeun
Summary: “Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed and knew it sounded fond and desperate. Crowley kept his eyes on the floor, since they were uncovered. He’d wrapped himself in an overcoat so the worst of the bloodstains were hidden, but he swayed where he stood. Aziraphale caught his elbow with one hand and slid his arm round Crowley’s narrow waist. “Dear, you shouldn’t be standing up!”“Should I call a doctor?” the woman at the desk had already picked up her phone, but Crowley waived it away.“Already seen one,” he croaked. A lie, but only just, Aziraphale reasoned.“We’ll manage,” Aziraphale assured her, taking the keys....An injured Crowley needs attention, and Aziraphale finally knows what must be done.





	Broken Things - Mending

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crowgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/gifts), [elizajane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane/gifts).

> This is the sequel to Broken Things. 
> 
> Many thanks to Crowgirl and ElizaJane for SO MUCH BETA

Broken Things, Part 2

Mending

Chapter 1

The sign said _vacancy_, and a light remained on at the front. Aziraphale climbed the steps on still-shaky legs. His body had a lot of work to do, it seemed, replacing all the blood he’d lost. He turned around to wave weakly at the Bentley. The drive had been only two miles, but Crowley seemed utterly exhausted by it. The mere fact he had gone well-under the speed limit spoke more than words. _Stay here,_ Aziraphale had whispered just before opening his passenger-side door. He’d touched Crowley’s face as he said it; cradled it almost. And Crowley hadn’t protested.

Now Aziraphale stood on the steps of a cottage bed and breakfast, one they’d found on Crowley’s phone the way any human might have done, and waited for someone to answer the door. He noted that the blood on his coat cuff had dried to a dull brown; it wouldn’t be too alarming. Certainly less upsetting than Crowley’s torn and tattered clothes, stiff with blood in places. Aziraphale suspected it had taken everything Crowley had just to sort out the Bentley, and he didn’t trust himself to try miracling either of them any more presentable.

“Good evening!” piped a cheerful voice as the door swung inward. “Can I help?”

“Ah, yes. I hope very much you can,” Aziraphale smiled, and hoped it looked more genuine than it felt. “It says you have a vacancy?”

The woman touched her hairline in what might be embarrassed surprise.

“I’m so sorry! Please come in—we just hardly ever have anyone drop in without a reservation!” She stepped backward to provide room, and Aziraphale stepped into a rustic hall of woven rugs and tasteful prints of a bucolic variety. The woman might be in her twenties; not the owner probably? Aziraphale expected such places to be run by small elder couples who watched television in back rooms and came out only at tea time.

“We do have a vacancy; two, actually.” She scrolled down a computer screen. “Are you on your own?”

Aziraphale started, hands fluttering like birds unsure of landing.

“No, no. There are two of us,” he said breathily. “And—and one of us isn’t terribly well just now.”

The young lady gave him an appraising look.

“You _do_ look a little pale,” she said. “Are you all right?”

_Goodness_, Aziraphale thought, _what happens when she sees Crowley?_ But she wouldn’t have to, would she. Not tonight; Aziraphale could get him up the stairs quietly enough, and tomorrow—

“Well, we have the Grovewood room. It’s en suite. Or there is the Empire, if you need more than one bed.”

Aziraphale swallowed. _Be brave,_ he told himself.

“The Grovewood is fine.” And it _was _fine. More than fine. He didn’t need to sleep. He didn’t need anything. Except that ever since letting go of Crowley at the hospital-that-wasn’t, he’d felt a shuddering sort of ache to be holding on to him again. _Crowley is brave, _he reminded himself. Terribly brave.

“You have a card to put this on?”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale paled slightly more; he did not have a credit card. Not a single one. He dug about in his pockets, willing at least one of them to have some bank notes. “Maybe—um—terribly sorry, I think I’ve left it—erm—in the car—”

In his fluster, Aziraphale had failed to notice that the clerk wasn’t looking at him anymore, but over his shoulder.

“Oh. You _really_ aren’t well,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

“Forgot this,” Crowley said from behind Aziraphale, and slid his credit card onto the counter.

“Oh _Crowley_,” Aziraphale sighed and knew it sounded fond and desperate. Crowley kept his eyes on the floor, since they were uncovered. He’d wrapped himself in an overcoat so the worst of the bloodstains were hidden, but he swayed where he stood. Aziraphale caught his elbow with one hand and slid his arm round Crowley’s narrow waist. “Dearest, you shouldn’t be standing up!”

“Should I call a doctor?” the woman had already picked up her phone, but Crowley waived it away.

“Already seen one,” he said. A lie, but only just, Aziraphale reasoned.

“It’s up the stairs, though?”

“We’ll manage,” Aziraphale assured her, taking the keys.

***

Chapter 2

Strength came in many different forms, it seemed. Aziraphale had found the front steps trying, but he’d lifted Crowley and carried him up a whole flight without stopping for breath. Feeling him there, snug against his breastbone, everything felt possible and worth doing. Twice if necessary. If he could work up a miracle for the door—

“Angel, I’m not dying. You can put me down,” Crowley said just at his ear, but the door had just opened with an ethereal pop. Aziraphale gave an _Aha!_ of triumph, and carried Crowley over the threshold. The room had a quiet sort of feeling; deep blues and pale yellow. A light sent a cheerful glow across the quilted bedclothes; it felt domestic and intimate. And this was _new. _Aziraphale released his hold beneath Crowley’s knees. He remained unsteady where he stood; Crowley’s left hand strayed to the back of his neck, the other aimless at his side. He hadn't made eye contact yet.

“I don’t know that was entirely necessary,” he said quietly.

“I don’t know that it _wasn’t_,” Aziraphale tutted. His arms still felt the warm angles of Crowley. A spot of breath still against his ear where he’d spoken. It twisted something on his insides, and he _ached_. He’d held Crowley when he thought he was dying; he wanted to hold him live and warm and safe—but how could he say so? In the Bentley, in the dark, Aziraphale felt brave enough; now they were in a quilted little room with soft light he just felt nervous and lost. Crowley wasn’t coming to Aziraphale’s rescue this time, though; shaky and exhausted, he gripped the bed post with one hand and shrugged out of his coat. Aziraphale caught it as it crumpled toward the floor.

“Tell me, Crowley, what do you need?” he asked. Because he wanted to give it. Crowley raised his eyes, round and golden and lovely—tired, and rimmed, and vulnerable. His pupils found Aziraphale’s. Then slid sideways to the hand-stitched patchwork and turned-down sheets.

“One bed, Aziraphale?”

A quake had started somewhere in Aziraphale’s insides, and now it was radiating outward in a spectacularly ill-mannered fashion.

“Yes,” he said, pursing his lips. He had half a dozen ways to throw the suggestion away. But he’d chosen this room to keep himself from it. Old habits were not hard to break. They were impossible to break. He’d just have to make new ones overtop of them. “I told you. That I want to be brave enough to—to _love_ you. To show you how much.”

Crowley sank into a sitting position at the edge of the mattress. It did not look deliberate or stylish or even intentional. It looked like passing out in slow motion.

“Angel, I’ve had an unexpected evening,” he said miserably. His free arm had gone limp. The rest of him listed in the direction of the bedpost for support, meaning the rest was delivered to the room’s northeast corner. “I’d like to know what you’re on about. Really. Jussst having a hard time of… vertical.”

Aziraphale dropped the coat and as many of his pretenses as possible.

“Here. Let me,” he said softly. He peeled Crowley’s fingers from their death grip on the post. Crowley put up a last bit of fight, but when Aziraphale put hands beneath his shoulders, he unspooled like thread and leaned limply against him. He’d never been heavy, but Crowley bore the weight of exhaustion now. Aziraphale lifted him gently, getting an arm beneath his knees, and snugged him backward toward the pillows. He was glad that, for the moment, Crowley was either too tired, or too surprised, or both to make conversation. Because he was planning to start on the shirt buttons next.

Aziraphale pushed away the tattered dress shirt, smoothing it over Crowley’s shoulders and tugging the sleeves away. Crowley allowed himself to be positioned, silently, pale and freckled skin looking appearing inch by inch. But his hand strayed to Aziraphale’s wrist as he reached for his belt buckle.

“Can’t be ssserious?” he hissed; Aziraphale winced, but it wasn’t in jest and it wasn’t in protest. Embarrassed, maybe. It sounded slightly pained.

“You take care of broken things, remember?” Aziraphale said, barely above a whisper. “It’s—well. It’s my turn at it. You can’t sleep in blood-soaked clothes.”

Crowley gave a hoarse laugh.

“Think of the sssheetsss,” he whispered, the snake-like lisp taking over. Aziraphale undid the belt and Crowley obliged with the trouser buttons. Getting the trousers off was easier than it might have been. They had been badly shredded.

“In you go, then.” Aziraphale lifted him, just in his shorts now, and wrapped him carefully under the sheets and quilt. Then, he took off his own jacket and hung it carefully over a chair. The waistcoat came next, the tie, and he began to fumble with his own buttons. Crowley hadn’t made a sound, and Aziraphale feared he might be asleep. But when he turned, heavy lidded yellow eyes met his own. Crowley was waiting, watching. He didn’t ask any questions. But that didn’t mean Aziraphale didn’t owe him an answer. His hands were shaking, so the buttons were putting up a fight anyway.

“I love you, Crowley. Have loved you. It’s quite terrifying how much, and for how long.” He’d sprung himself, finally, shirt tail hanging loose. He still had an undershirt on, but felt positively naked. He started again to speak, stuttered, and wrung his hands. “Oh dear, I’m afraid I’m not very good at any of this.”

The light went out, suddenly, leaving them both in cool moonlight. Aziraphale breathed relief at the gentle dark; he hadn’t seen Crowley do it, but knew he _had._

“Th-thank you.” Aziraphale’s voice broke slightly. “That does help.” He slipped the shirt off, and then his trousers. His undershirt bore speckled of blood as well, and he pulled it off over his head. “I thought I would lose you, you know. And—and I know you have faced that. Many times, even. Because—because—”

Aziraphale knelt next to the bed, as though about to say evening prayers. He rested his elbows on the mattress and peered at Crowley, almost forehead to forehead. A pause, for his heart to catch up, then the rest came out in a whisper.

“Because I am not brave. And when I’m not brave, I’m terribly unkind. Oh, Crowley! If you had gone, I would not forgive myself, not even if She did. And…and I just want to hold on to you a bit more.”

He could still see Crowley’s eyes, open and faintly luminescent. He said no words. But his hand, the one nearest Aziraphale, slid quietly across the mattress and pushed away the quilt. An invitation.

Aziraphale climbed in. Crowley might have managed with a great deal more finesse. Aziraphale had to rely only on being gentle, and desperately sorry, and very keen to wrap up Crowley’s angles in a protective embrace. At last, he had his back against a wall of pillows, and Crowley tucked beneath his chin, just as he’d done at the nunnery—except Crowley was a faint pulse of pleasant electricity instead of a cold, gray, blank.

“SSs’going to be awkward tom’row, in’it?” Crowley’s muffled voice tickled against Aziraphale’s breastbone.

“No, it will _not_,” he sniffed, patting Crowley’s head with his free hand before pulling the quit up about his bare shoulders. He felt Crowley’s body lift and fall with a grateful sigh.

“Angel,” he said. But he said a great deal more than that. Aziraphale could feel it, a warm, fragile love that covered over all those jagged edges in both of them. He pulled him closer, then felt his own aching body relax by degrees.

“Crowley. Thank you for not leaving me,” he said. He could tell by the steady breathing that Crowley were already sound asleep. So he whispered it more softly, like a lullaby, over his head. He kept on, till his chin rested against Crowley’s hair, feather soft. Aziraphale’s own limbs grew heavy, as heavy as they’d every been maybe, and his heartbeat found the rhythm of Crowley’s against his chest.

Aziraphale slept. Dreamless, peaceful. It felt like home.

***

Chapter 3

Crowley’s eyelids fluttered, lashes butterfly kissing something soft and warm and pliable. He could sense light in the room, feel it in a stripe across his bare back. _Morning. _He swam toward consciousness and the first noticeable sensation was ache, muscles complaining that things had not been especially pleasant in the last twenty-four hours. The second sensation, also entirely unexpected, were the fingers resting against his shoulder blade. They weren’t his own. For a brief panicked moment, he wasn’t sure *whose.*

Crowley opened both eyes to a sloping expanse of pale, soft skin. And one rather pert nipple.

“’zZiraphale?”

“Good morning,” Aziraphale said. His voice was above Crowley’s head and to the left. Crowley sucked in air, not quite a gasp. Then relaxed. _Ah. _He’d fallen asleep on Aziraphale’s chest, in the circle of Aziraphale’s arms. _Safe._

“Hrmm,” he managed. It wasn’t a very good effort. Aziraphale responded by giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever slept so sound myself,” Aziraphale admitted, and his voice did have the rough edge of sleep, deeper, more resonant than his usual speaking voice. Crowley tried to commit it to memory.

“I can get off you, if you want,” he offered and hoped very much he wouldn’t have to.

“I’m sure you could.” No push and no shove, though. Aziraphale just flattened his right hand against Crowley’s back, which made Crowley wonder where the other one was. He felt a slight tremble of embarrassment, but he was far to heavy and sore to do much about it.

“You did ask,” Crowley whispered._ To hold me_, he meant to say, but he couldn’t get the last words out. They felt so raw and desperate and needy. Aziraphale petted him.

“I did. I wanted to. And I’m glad you let me.”

_Wanted. _Crowley swallowed slowly. _I wanted to_.

“Crowley, you’re trembling! Are you cold? I can—I can reach the quilt if you want?” Aziraphale asked.

“Not cold,” Crowley said, and it was hard getting it out with his teeth clenched like that. _Stop it_, he told himself. But he couldn’t. He gripped the sheets, making a fist, but the shaking wouldn’t quit. “I didn’t—I’m not—ah, fuck.” 

The last of it came out as a sob, the end of his attempts not to cry like an idiot. He didn’t know why, even. And thank God—yes, actual God, why not—Aziraphale didn’t ask. He just petted Crowley’s hair, which was good. _Very_ good. And the other hand found its way around Crowley’s ribs to hug him closer.

It helped. But it was a while before the spasm subsided entirely. He already felt weak, and this little outburst had not helped matters.

“S-s-sorry,” Crowley said feebly. “That was a fucking day.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was soft and fond. “Can you look at me?”

Crowley shifted his weight; so much of him was draped over _not_-him, skin to skin. He managed to get a hand on either side of his angel, and with some effort, hoist himself up to meet him eye to eye. Aziraphale’s hair had gotten mussed and stood up on one side. He was still propped against pillows, and had evidently leaned into one because his face bore pillow marks on one rosy cheek. Aziraphale smiled then, so bright he almost glowed, and placed one hand on Crowley’s cheek as he’d done the night before.

“I agree, my dear. It was a—a _fucking_ day.”

The look, the gentle touch, and the bizarrely proper inflection Aziraphale just gave to the word _fuck_ caused Crowley to dissolve into a fit of laughter. His elbows got wobbly, and he sank onto Aziraphale’s chest, itself shaking with giggles.

“Oh, goodness.” Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s chin and held his face in his hands. So delicate, but also firm. No more hesitance, no more tentative touches. “You are stunning when you laugh.”

“I don’t feel stunning, angel,” Crowley could still feel the hot tear-streaks on his cheeks. “I feel weak and shaky.”

“Because you are, dear. But I will take good care of you.”

Crowley slithered forward just slightly, cool skin connecting with soft belly, and leaned his face into Aziraphale’s hands. Warm thumbs made small circles on either side of Crowley’s jaw, just under his ears. He wanted to say something. He couldn’t sort out how. Instead, he just let himself feel it from the inside out. _You came for me. You came for me. You came for me._

Aziraphale heaved a deep sigh, and when Crowley looked up he saw tears glistening in bright blue irises.

“Always, Crowley. I promise.” Then he leaned forward, and kissed Crowley’s forehead. Crowley could feel the impression of lips, and his eyelids fluttered helplessly. Warmth seemed to spread from that tiny space of embodied skin right to the core of his everything.

“You kissed me, Aziraphale,” he whispered.

“I did.”

“Could you do it again?”

Azirpahale’s lips found both of Crowley’s cheeks. It was soft. It was reverent. Crowley wanted him to never stop doing that. Never. Not ever. But at last, Aziraphale pulled gently away--just far enough to look Crowley in his now-dewy eyes.

“Now,” Aziraphale said, his voice a bit more even than before. “We need to get up. And we need to eat something—even you.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows (and nothing else).

“I thought you liked me this way.”

“I like you all the ways,” Aziraphale said, smiling but still trying to move Crowley into an upright position. “I _love _you all the ways.”

Crowley lifted himself into a crouch, knees on either side of his angel. His hair had fallen into his eyes, and he looked at Aziraphale through the strands.

“Broken things. You said.”

“My dearest Crowley.” Aziraphale gave him a look of deepest indulgence. “I didn’t mean _you_. I’m the broken one, I’m afraid. But you’re very good at mending me.”

Crowley reached for Aziraphale’s hand and kissed his knuckles one by one.

“I love you desperately, angel,” he said, finally releasing Aziraphale, who climbed from the bed and stretched pale limbs. When he turned again, he reached for Crowley and carefully lifted him to standing. After a brief moment of vertigo, Crowley steadied, and when he seemed certain to keep his feet, Aziraphale pulled him close.

“I don’t think I’m done holding on to you, if that’s all right?” he asked. Crowley felt the pressure of another threatening sob, born of hope and love and something like sheer existence, life itself.

“Always,” he choked. “Ever.”

This time, Aziraphale kissed him on the lips. Chaste. But ever so meaningful.

“We need to do something about your clothes, you know,” he said as a magnificent blush spread over both cheeks.

***

Chapter 4

He looked presentable, Crowley decided, but by no means _fresh_. He’d sorted the jeans and shirt, but had lost the jacket somewhere along the way. The overcoat, which he kept stored beneath the rear seat, hadn’t been stylish since 1987, but it would do. It still outpaced Aziraphale’s wardrobe by half a century.

“Ready?”

“Seems that way, angel.” Aziraphale was at his side in a moment, one hand on his elbow, steering him along as they descended. It wasn’t necessary. Crowley found himself unable to say so.

“Oh! Good _morning_!” The young woman from the night before perked visibly at seeing them. “You look so much better. I was really worried, you know?”

She led them into a sun-drenched solarium that served as the breakfast room. Then she pulled out a chair for Crowley.

“I’m—I’ve got it—” he muttered, sitting.

“Terribly nice, isn’t she?” Aziraphale beamed after her. Crowley fumbled with the sunglasses.

“She probably thinks I’m blind.”

“Tut— she saw you walk in last night,” Aziraphale pushed the menu card at him. “Eggs? Toast? They appear to have the full English.”

“Coffee, sirs?” A blond boy of about fourteen turned up with a carafe. Aziraphale pointed to Crowley’s cup.

“Oh please, yes; he takes it black. And I’ll have tea. And we’ll both have the full breakfast. And juice. And pastries. If you have them.” The lad nodded and Crowley raised his eyebrows.

“They’ll think I’m mute, too, at this rate.”

“You are going to eat, my dear,” Aziraphale said, and he made a good attempt of looking stern about it. “Your body has been through an awful strain.”

To be honest, Crowley didn’t need encouragement. A dull sort of ache had been growing on him, and he hadn’t realized till the server set the bread basket down that it was hunger. Not enough occult juice to keep things humming, he was, in fact, _starving. _Crowley snatched up a croissant and managed to dispense with it in three hearty bites before going in for the rolls.

Aziraphale giggled. Like a school boy. “You’ve butter on your chin,” he said, reaching forward and rubbed the spot with his thumb. Tender. It sent a tickle of electricity down Crowley’s throat, and he swallowed slowly.

“In public, even?” he asked, wishing it didn’t sound so breathy. Somehow, even waking in Aziraphale’s arms, he couldn’t quite believe he’d been touched. Like that. Intimate—_fond._ Aziraphale dropped his fingers away slowly, but did not pull them back to his side of the table.

“Should I not?” he asked. It was honest, not rhetorical. He wanted Crowley to tell him what was right. And that…well, that just didn’t make any sense at all.

“Angel, _Aziraphale_, you should—do—whatever you _want_ to do,” he said and his voice broke like waves over rocks. He’d thought about what he would say, if ever there was a moment to say it. But if 6000 years weren’t enough time to gather his thoughts on the subject, then there simply wasn’t a way to do this with style. He brushed pastry crumbs from his sleeve and left his hand upon the table, palm up. _Not difficult, _he told himself. Except that it was. An open hand, just waiting. He’d done it before. “I love you.”

Aziraphale’s hand fluttered downward like a nesting bird until their fingers entwined. “And I love you” he whispered. “And I have waited much too long to show it.”

Crowley found himself blessing Creation for sunglasses. The juice had come and the tea, too, and he still hadn’t said a word. Just looked down at their joined hands as though they were some alien treasure from some other place. Finally, he cleared his throat.

“What _exactly_ happened yesterday?”

“Well, dear, you were in an accident,” Aziraphale said gently.

“Yes, I got that part,” Crowley slid the glasses down, just enough to let his angel see pupil and iris. “I mean what happened _to you_.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale smiled, though his face seemed suddenly pleading and vulnerable. “You know, I thought I lost my best friend.”

Crowley dipped his head. _Oh. _Yes, he remembered how it felt, for him, in the burning bookshop. It hurt like hell. Worse than hell. Aziraphale must have seen the memory skirt across Crowley’s features, because he squeezed his hand all the more.

“You see, I had this peculiar notion that if I didn’t care too much, I wouldn’t lose anything.”

“I know,” Crowley whispered. Caring was a good way to get yourself good and fucked, after all.

“_Yes, you do,_” Aziraphale said, covering both their hands with his left. “That is the point. You do know, and you care anyway. And so do I. I just didn’t ...let myself realize until I almost lost the only thing that matters.”

Crowley wondered if Aziraphale knew how much it hurt to hear that. Hurt, but in the way it probably hurt a seedling to push through its outer husk. Still. He couldn’t let the angel have it all his own way. Crowley leaned back into his more usual posture, one leg stretched out, one arm slung over the back of his chair.

“I didn’t realize you cared so much for the Bentley,” he said. And Aziraphale swatted at him. And their food arrived. Crowley didn’t remember anything tasting so good in all his life, and he said so—twice—once to the nice young lady who ran the place, whose name turned out to be Lilly.

“We should come back, don’t you think?” Aziraphale asked as they checked out.

“Was thinking about moving in,” Crowley said, signing for their room.

“Really?” Aziraphale gave the receiving room a quick once-over. “It’s a bit far from London, isn’t it?”

Crowley slipped one arm around Aziraphale’s waist in a side-ways embrace.

“I wasn’t talking about the bed and breakfast,” he said.

Aziraphale turned sideways in Crowley’s arms, folded fingers round the lapels of the awful overcoat, and pulled him close. Then he kissed him—hard—in front of Lilly, God, and everyone.

“Oh,” he whispered against Crowley’s lips. “Oh, yes please.”


End file.
